My cousin gifted me a 1970s Canon AE-1 film camera for my birthday several years ago. For the first year and a half, the camera languished in my closet because the thought of handling film was, when compared with the immediacy of my DSLR Canon Rebel T1i, too much trouble. One day I wandered into the photography shop next to my house (sadly, it has since closed shop because the owner retired), bought some film, and went for a walk, taking the AE-1 for a spin.
There is a soft and romantic quality imbued in the photos created by my little AE-1 that a DSLR can’t manage to recreate.
I once blogged profusely– I created content to throw at the Internet as if my life depended on it. Yet over the last two years, that urge waned, and as my day job/career took me down one black hole, I left the world of blogging and photography. Instead, my life became one continuous stretch of commute-work-commute-sleep-repeat. What had once made me happy– photography, writing, reading, wandering the town I live in– was pushed to the side in my drive to succeed at work. Slowly, I became more and more frustrated.
This frustration culminated in a tearful rant to my boyfriend about my life, about happiness, about my life, and about how I no longer did any of the things that made me happy. He urged me to start writing again, to go on those long walks I missed so much, to take photos, to read, and, ultimately, to be happy.
So I am back again.
The second photograph is a peek of my backyard. We need a gardener.
The final photograph is my mess of a shelf that holds mementos from various points of my life– a nutcracker, photo booth pictures, assorted glass bottles, truffle salt from France, a Tin Tin figurine, oddly shaped rocks from the beach, a chalk pastel set, an Android doll, camera lenses, and old-school cameras. It is a rather apropos representation of my life.